What Didn't Happen on Christmas Eve, 1895
by daysandweeks
Summary: What if Kartik had picked Tom up at the Athenaeum? Slashy threesome strangeness. Not to be taken too seriously.


**Inspired by a short conversation via Livejournal with LunaEquus on Kartik/Tom/Simon, a.k.a. Karthomon. This isn't a lemon, because I can't write them at all, but it is slashy and it is a threesome. And it is really weird and took me the most hysterical hour of my life to write.**

What Didn't Happen on Christmas Eve, 1895

a.k.a.

_what Tom wanted to happen, the adventure Simon was looking for, & the strange dream that Kartik had_

**Kartik, 7 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

As I head away from the stables, I decide that I don't care. So Gemma's father's passed out in the middle of London. That's too bad for him, but honestly, what would I have done about that? _My_ Christmas Eve would have certainly been a lot worse, if not Gemma's. I'm sure that she was worried about her father, but at least she got to relax for the time being.

Deep down, though, there's a sense of regret. I've never felt so flippant before in my life, and I know that tonight shall always be a secret and never be repeated. I can't help but wonder if my Christmas morning could have turned out any differently.

I stroll around the yard for a bit, happy to have the Christmas morning to myself. Last night was certainly quite interesting, to say the least. Absentmindedly, I place a hand in my pocket and am startled to feel something papery and shaped like a cylinder. I pull it out to see a cigarette.

I immediately rush back towards the stables and hide it in a tin I keep my special belongings in. Even if tonight shall never be repeated and shall always be a secret, I'll have this for a reminder.

**Tom, 6 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

"This. Isn't. Good."

I'm going to die. I'm completely tired and I'm certain that I drank too much sometime in between whenever I arrived at the Athenaeum (When was that? Seven? Eight? Nine, maybe?) and whenever we left. (That part's still a blur.)

Kartik is sitting in front of the coach, and we're riding along at such a speed and I'm wondering how exactly he's managing to not vomit and then I remember that although he's partaken in many odd pleasures tonight, drinking wasn't one of them, I'm fairly certain. Then I remember that I've never called him "Kartik". It's always been "Mr. Kartik" or even nothing at all…I'm not even sure if he has a last name (or a first?), honestly.

Now I'm pondering over why we did what we did. I was completely intoxicated—that's my alibi, and it's an honest one, for the most part. I read somewhere once that one's actions while drunk are only an amplification of their desires when sober. I suppose that this is true. I'd always found Simon Middleton to be handsome and he'd always inspired a sort of…I don't know the word; I'm too lost for that. Too tired to think.

"What isn't good?" Kartik finally responds, calling back to me.

"Everything!" I exclaim, trying hard not to get to close to the window and vomit on his shoulder. "I'm not seven sure if my father returned home last night, now that's something I must fix…" I don't know why I insisted on going to the Athenaeum tonight. It's not like I expected to be riding home so quickly at so early (late?) an hour, feeling like I was going to vomit and wondering why exactly I did what I did but not regretting it in the least. "You know that we shall never, ever speak of this again, right?" I yell to Kartik.

Kartik doesn't answer and I'm beginning to feel nervous until he answers, "Yes."

We're almost home when I finally lose my insides.

**Simon, 5 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

We're all laughing. People are looking at us very strangely, but I don't know who they are. Some old, mangy looking man. He's probably wondering why we're walking down the street so early and why we're with an Indian and why Tom's practically holding my hand and looks as if he's about to wet himself with excitement.

I'm wondering that all too, honestly, but the details don't really matter. I'm enjoying myself too much right now to care about explanations.

I'm in the midst of telling a story when Tom suddenly interjects, "It's five in the morning."

Kartik, who hasn't spoken much the entire night but has been a wonderful sport, glances at the sky. The sun is rising in the east, or maybe it's setting in the west, but Tom just said it was morning, so it must be rising. "Yes, it is," he says, taking on the same, concerned tone.

"And…?" I ask. "Do you two have somewhere to be? A hotel room, perhaps?"

Tom turns scarlet. I don't see what color Kartik turns. I'm too busy wondering why Tom's still looking so worried.

"I have to get home," is all that he says, and before I know it, he's pulling Kartik back towards wherever the carriage was left and I'm stranded in the streets, wondering how exactly I'm going to explain this entire night to anyone who might wonder.

"It was interesting," I say to myself, and I run down the street and tell that to everyone who passes.

**Kartik, 4 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

"Is any place open?" Tom mumbles from somewhere behind me. "I'm terribly thirsty."

"I honestly don't know," Simon answers, and I'm certain that his eyelids are drooping by the way that he says it.

"I highly doubt it," I pipe up from the front of the carriage, where I've returned to due to lack of room and the fact that someone passed by and started whistling. "It's Christmas morning, you know."

"Fuck," someone says. I know it's not me, and I'm fairly certain that it's not Tom.

"Yes, well, I'm sure that's not what they were thinking when Jesus was born," Tom mumbles.

"Don't talk about Jesus right now, of all people."

I let out a soft laugh, thinking of the things I said to Gemma about Simon Middleton and his inappropriate actions. Even if he proved himself further wrong tonight, perhaps I was incorrect. It appears that he is in possession of a conscience.

"No one can ever know about this, you know," I murmur, stating the obvious.

Tom pops his head over to the front to see me. "We know," he says, and with that I find myself drifting off, if only for a few minutes.

**Tom, 3 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

"That was thoroughly odd," I find myself saying. In the strangest night of my life, not only have I so far participated in a sexual act considered very unholy, but in the mad dash to secure a comfortable position in the coach, I've kicked Simon in the head, someone's foot has made its pay into my face, and Kartik's back became covered with scratch marks. On impulse I find myself glancing at my nails, and notice what might be skin under them. _Nevermind_, I think to myself, while murmuring to Kartik, "Sorry about that."

**Simon, 2 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

"We should get a hotel room," Tom suggests the minute Kartik opens the door and joins us.

"That's ludicrous," I tell him. "I can see the headlines on the gossip page now."

"I'm leaving," the Indian says, changing his mind. "You didn't force me to come back here just to squabble."

I blink, completely surprised by his impertinence. I suppose that after seeing what he's seen and being invited to join in, though, he would lose a sense of respect. I don't want to lose him, though. He could leak this to anyone. Of course I could deny it, or just say that we just got a bit more friendly than usual—a few glasses of whatever could do that to anyone—and that it was all blown out of proportion.

I really don't want to have to put up with that, though, and so I kiss him.

**Kartik, 1 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

_I can't do this_, I think to myself. _There is no possible way that I can drive these two to wherever their destination is. I just can't_.

"Why aren't we moving?" Tom grumbles in between what I suppose are kisses. I'm not turning around to double check. _I should have taken Gemma to find her father. I should have taken Gemma to find her father. I should have taken Gemma to find her father_.

I'm here though. I'm in the here and now and I have two people, one of whom I despise just for interfering with my own personal happiness and treating the girl of my dreams inappropriately and the other who hasn't treated me in any way to make me have a real opinion of them, embracing in the back of the carriage, and they are both men that the woman I care about cares about as well.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

It's Middleton this time, and before I have time to reply Tom's making some noise that sounds disgusting to me but like whatever caused him to make it caused him a great deal of pleasure.

"Why don't we invite him back here as well?" someone asks, and I don't care who, because I just want to get away from here as soon as possible but...

I pull away from the Athenaeum, wondering what exactly is so great that's making them make those happy little noises.

**Tom, 12 o'clock A.M., Christmas Day**

"We could leave whenever you want," I tell Simon. "My coachman should be out there."

"And he wouldn't mind…?"

"Probably," I concede.

We're being so vague that I can't help but let out an uncharacteristic giggle. What are we drinking? I feel completely out of touch with myself and everything going on around me, yet so here and in the moment at the same time.

It was a silly suggestion. I don't know who came up with it. But now I _want_ to give it a try. It sounds so…interesting.

"Let's do it anyway," Simon says with a laugh.

"Let's."

**Simon, 11 o'clock P.M., Christmas Eve**

"Women…are...terrible."

Tom is apparently a depressing drunk.

"They just…well, they just send you off, and then they…die, or lie to you, or…something like that."

I'm fairly certain that he's talking about women as in motherly figures, but perhaps he's not. Jokingly, I say, "You could try men, for a change."

Tom sends me a quick, nervous glance, and whispers, "You haven't, have you?"

I let out a loud laugh. "Good God no," I say. But still, there's that suspicion in Tom's eyes—that look that he doesn't believe me, or perhaps that he wanted me to have done so. "Have you?" I whisper in return.

"No," Tom answers, and turns away from me to answer someone who has tapped him on the shoulder.

When he glances back towards me, though, the question is apparent in his eyes and the answer in mine.

_Want to try?_


End file.
